


poetry of the heart

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [62]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, could be read as canon-compliant with uprising or not, def post pr tho, the summary makes it look v sad but i swear it's, unspecific time in canon, well it IS sad but not as sad as it COULD be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 14:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18852691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: Newt's relapsed.





	poetry of the heart

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "I found something in a poem that would be like the most amazing angst prompt, right? You love each other, you do, and here’s the tragedy: it’s not enough. You are not allowed to save him. You can love him, but you can’t keep him."

The harsh white lighting of the compound throws everything into sharp relief, stripping away the shadows. Hermann glances at the watch on his wrist, watches as the second hand moves steadily,  _tick, tick, tick_  and breathes in.

He thinks of the papers at his desk in their flat, the way it feels empty, has felt empty for weeks, now, without Newton. The poet within him burst free during those weeks—many of the papers on his desk at the moment are pieces of poetry.

[ _—you love each other, you do, and here’s the tragedy: it’s not enough. You are not allowed to save him. You can love him, but you can’t keep him._ ]

The chair he’s sitting in is cold and hard, but it’s better than standing. Somewhere within the labyrinthine corridors, the air sharp with the scent of disinfectant, there is someone dying.

There always is, in places like these.

He licks his lips and waits.

Suddenly, the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching, and he draws himself up, sitting straight-backed; anticipating.

“Dr. Gottlieb,” greets the nurse, a clipboard in hand. “Please, follow me.”

The circulated air is cold on his skin as he follows after her; the silence between them stretches, makes Hermann fidget. The little corner of his mind that harbours a presence that sounds strangely like Newton laughs.  _You’re becoming like me_ , he teases,  _maybe you shouldn’t’ve Drifted with me._

Hermann bites his tongue, ignores it to the best of his ability.

She stops outside the door. “This is Doctor Geiszler’s room,” she clarifies, needlessly. “He’s still fairly weak from the treatments, so please don’t do anything that could cause him to get overexcited.”

He nods—speaking seems inappropriate, somehow, and he steps forward, turns the handle of the door.

It’s heavier than he’s expected—he has to brace it with his shoulder to open it properly.

The inside is much like the outside—stark, impersonal. Everything in blue-white, the scent of antiseptic permeating everything. Four beds—three are empty, curtains pulled back, covers made to perfection. The fourth, furthest from the door, closest to the singular window, has the curtains drawn.

He makes his way over to it, the triplicate of his footsteps and cane the only sound, pulls back the curtain just enough that he can see the man lying in the bed.

Newton’s propped up with pillows, chest rising and falling slightly with each breath. He looks frighteningly pale, arms limp at his side, face waxy. He looks a bit like an apparition, all told. Hermann hovers at the side of the bed, warring between wanting to leave him to rest and wanting to sit there and wait for him to get better.

Newt’s eyes crack open. “Hermann?” he asks, quiet, slightly scratchy, and his hand twitches toward him.

“Yes, it’s—it’s me, darling,” Hermann replies, equally quietly, and it feels fragile, like if he raises his voice Newt will shatter.

[ _He_  will shatter.]

Newt turns his head minutely so he can meet Hermann’s gaze better. “I…I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean—it just got so  _loud_ , and the next thing I know, I was waking up here, and they said I had relapsed, that—that you found me. I—I’m sorry, Hermann.”

His eyes are glassy, and Hermann’s own are stinging with tears at the memory of finding Newt’s figure on the floor, limp, pons on his head, another brain in a tank, scarily reminiscent of finding Newton seizing on a filthy floor in Hong Kong.

“Have you been eating?” he asks instead, sits on the edge of the bed, fingers smoothing over the wrinkles in the bedsheets. “You look too thin.”

Newt sighs. “We can’t avoid it forever,” he says, and Hermann flinches. “Yes, I’ve eaten,” he adds, “the stuff here tastes like shit, though. I miss your cooking.”

“I…”  _thought you were dead,_  he doesn’t say,  _for good, this time._

He doesn’t have to; Newt knows, even if Hermann doesn’t say it out loud. He shifts, just enough that he can place his hand over Hermann’s own, and Hermann pulls in a hitching breath. “You scared me,” he says, “I was—I was terrified, Newton.”

“I know,” Newt says gently. “And I’m sorry. And me saying that isn’t going to change what happened, but I—I need you to know that. I  _am_  sorry for scaring you like that.”

Hermann sighs. Newt’s right—he’s still angry and afraid, and nothing that the other says can change that, but. “Thank you,” he says, “I…I will not be able to ever get over this, Newton, but—thank you.”

Newt doesn’t nod—Hermann suspects that the motion would be too exhaustive—but he squeezes Hermann’s hand. “I’m getting better,” he murmurs, “and I’ll get better. I—I’m going to find a therapist, Hermann. I can’t do this on my own, not anymore. Not without hurting you. But I—I’m going to try my hardest.”

Hermann swallows. “Thank you,” he says, again, because he can’t find the words, throat tight, but there’s something growing in his chest, beneath his sternum, something he can tentatively call  _hope._

He cannot  _keep_  Newton; that is not his call to make—it is up to Newton to  _stay_  or  _leave_.

He cannot save Newton; that is up to Newton himself—Newt must walk the path of recovery himself.

But—he can be there by Newt’s side. And that is enough.

[It  _has_  to be enough.]


End file.
